Horatio Conquers Atlantis (PT, Open but TG to participate)

[Astoria]

OOC1: No major military deployments from anyone besides myself RPing Colden’s Legion and Atlantian Dominions RPing his predecessor state. However both sides, especially mine, would see the value in foreign soldiers, and other governments may wish to comment diplomatically or send military observers.

OOC2: If you’re interested in joining as a soldier of fortune or commander of small foreign mercenary unit serving either side, TG either myself or Atlantian Dominions for permission to post.

OOC3: Many portions of posts by me or Atlantian Dominions will include descriptions of the other’s actions. All instances are by consent of the other RPer.

The Atlantian Sea
Off the Coast of the Island of Palmetto
Common Year 1868

The warship Ever Victorious had been a warship only for a few months, and it showed. Franklin Grammar had been on true warships, stout vessels with wooden hulls built in the Federal Navy Yards at Oaksborough, and they felt from top to bottom like weapons of war. This warship had once been a civilian ship, hauling cargos from Portsmouth and Adamsburgh across the Atlantic to ports in the Yukon Isles and the Europan mainland, until its owner had donated it to the cause in which it was now in service.

Or perhaps “to the man” was better than “to the cause,” because while this ship was the newly designated flagship of a small armada of ersatz warships and troopships crossing the short distance from the southern coast of Astoria to the largest of the Atlantian Isles, it was carrying the most important component of the whole enterprise: Horatio Colden, former officer in the Astorian Army and now self-proclaimed President of the Atlantian Republic.

Grammar turned his attention from watching the Ever Victorious’ hull glide through the ocean back to the deck of the ship, where the man himself was holding a meeting with the other members of the Astorian press that had decided to accompany him on this expedition. He was mid-speech when Grammar’s ears began to sort his booming voice out from the noise of the ship.

“…will benefit greatly from being introduced to our noble system of democracy,” Colden was saying. “The S aristocrats who hold sway over the rotting remains of the old colonial system will be replaced with freely chosen representatives, who will help me to bring civilization to those benighted islands.”

The reporters, many from the more outlandish newspapers from the largest Astorian cities, sat in a semi-circle around Colden, who was sitting resplendent in his uniform as Commander in Chief of the Army of the Atlantian Republic on top of stacked crates. One of them raised their head from their paper.

“But what about the rumors that you've been paid and equipped for this by several rich men from Astoria. The rumors say you've promised them exclusive access to the natural resources of the islands in exchange for power.”

“Nonsense!” Colden barked. “Now while I will admit having had some assistance in putting together this expedition, and some of that assistance did come from wealthy backers who I will do the respect of declining to name, it was one man and one man only, that is, myself, who set me on this course.”

Grammar huffed. Colden would likely keep up the façade of his selfless passion for exporting liberty until the very end: the man knew how to spin a good story, especially when the lead character was himself. But Grammar had heard the ballroom boasts of a few wealthy merchants in the social circles of New Superior, and he knew that Colden could not have scraped together a small army and navy on the appeal of the cause of liberty and donations alone. He surely had help from those who wished to open up the Atlantian Isles to exploitation with Astorians first in line, instead of Savoien and Yukons.

Colden was still holding forth on the subject. “Surely, if I was devoted to almighty profit above all, I would not have made my intentions regarding the foul practice of slavery so clear.”

Grammar had to nod in agreement. The islands ran on the backs of black Afran slaves, working on plantations and in mines as the property of their owners; a practice that Astoria had required a Civil War, only recently concluded a few years ago, to abolish. The Atlantians had not followed suit, but it seemed Colden meant to make them.

Another reporter perked up. “But isn’t it true you served in the War of Congaree Secession as an officer in the rebel army?”

“I did, I will not deny,” Colden said. “I was blind to the evil of slavery then, but my eyes are open now, and I mean to open the eyes of the Atlantians as well. Now gentlemen, I will inform you of the basic outlines of our strategy for landing.”

Two men appeared carrying a large map of the island of Palmetto, the largest of the three Atlantian Isles. Colden gestured with his cigar as the reporters, including Grammar took notes.

“Our more powerful warships will enact a cordon to prevent the Atlantian’s navy from interfering with our landing of troops here, near the small town of New Orchard,” Colden explained. “From there, we will march overland to seize the city of Sant-Arnault. To do so, we must seize Fort de Jeune Roi, the Young King’s Fort, which guards the harbor access. And that is all that I will reveal today.”

Grammar dispersed with the rest of the reporters and began making his notes.

[Atlantian Dominions]

OOC: Any interested in RPing should know a few things. 1) This is Civil War tech, as evidenced by the year. Landmass is as follows: Astoria controls all of the RL United States and Canada, plus the Baja peninsula of Mexico. The Atlantian Isles are RL Cuba (Palmetto), Hispanola (Peachtree), and Puerto Rico (Atlantis). Since this isn’t going to be a war between anyone except Astoria and myself, there shouldn’t be a need to define any other location issues.

Royal Palace, City of Fair Harbor, Island of Palmetto

King Francois Rodan, ruler of the Atlantian Isles and the latest patriarch of the Rodan family to sit on the throne in the Royal Palace, listened to the report of the man in the gaudy military uniform who spoke in the center of the royal court. He described the announcements that this man Horatio Colden had made about conquering his islands and creating a democratic government.

It was laughable. As if the slaves could govern themselves! The Yukons had thought the same, and his ancestors had driven them off these islands. He gestured and a beautiful woman in a nearly see-through dress stepped forward from behind the throne to hand him a full goblet of wine. He waved her off and drank.

“I trust that our soldiers at Sant-Arnault have been prepared to face the enemy?”

“Oui mon roi,” the general answered. “But it is difficult, since our arsenals are rather outdated…”

“Surely able men could defend Fort de Jeune Roi from an attacker with hurled stones?”

Pierre Saran de Commant, marquis de Bayeuma and the king’s closest advisor, spoke up from the small crowd of nobles and courtiers gathered on side of the audience hall. He took several steps forward, separating himself from the crowd. The general regarded him like a new species of viper.

“Perhaps for a time, marquis, but hurled stones cannot stop cannon shells.”

“This fillibustero cannot have any artillery better than that supplied by the kings of Europa!”

The general looked to King Francois. They both knew, as well as the marquis, that the kingdom had sold many cannon, to Astoria in fact, to pay for more slaves and cover the debts acquired by purchasing the manufactured goods they could not make themselves. The Royal Army was small, and spread across the islands to suppress the risk of slave revolts. Many of them were armed with flintlock muskets. The militia was unreliable, provincial, and armed with even more outdated weapons.

Atlantia would have to crush these upstart pirates quickly, or else they would roll up the island and every man in this room would end up in jail or slumped against a bloodstained and bullet-riddled wall.

Not every man…there were slaves in this room, serving the king, warming his bed, preparing food, doing all sorts of menial tasks. Colden had promised them freedom in his announcements, though few of them could read such leaflets even if they had gotten their hands on them. But once the Astorians landed, and if they stayed true to their word…it had been remarked that the fastest way to get news from one side of the island to the other was to say it near a slave.

Fort de Jeune Roi, City of Sant-Arnault, Island of Palmetto

General Roman DeCleur de Saint-Remis looked out over the parapets of the fortress under his command. Beyond the thick walls of the fort, slaves were toiling in the hot sun under the guns of Atlantian soldiers, constructing additional earthworks to serve as a forward line of defense. He could shift his gaze to the left and count the three warships in the harbor of Sant-Arnault: three frigates built to run down pirates and enforce customs, not fight pitched battles on the sea.

He had heard that the Astorian upstart’s ships were also not built for war, but he had refused to allow Captain Fallard, senior commander, to risk an open battle. Instead they remained in harbor, protecting his water flank. The Astorians could not bombard the city or his fort while those ships remained.

He had sent a regiment out to the site of the best beaches in the area, New Orchard, to try and strike the Astorians before they could form up their whole force and march against Sant-Arnault. Colonel Parkman was Yukon-descended, a handicap of birth that had stopped his advancement in the ranks beyond command of a regiment of mostly Yukon men. Perhaps he could earn that advancement on the battlefield, through glory.

Ultimately, all was in the hands of God.

[Astoria]

OOC: Here's a rough map drawn up by Atlantian Dominions for reference

Shores of Palmetto Island
A Short Distance from New Orchard

The stretch of beach where Colden’s Legion – the pompous name that Horatio Colden had assigned to his collection of ex-Astorian Army soldiers, foreign soldiers of fortune, former Congaree rebels, and assorted seekers of glory and plunder – had made their landing had calm seas and low sloping hills just beyond the shoreline that allowed the first wave of infantry to establish a line of defense to protect the rest of the landing.

Rowboats plied their way between the collection of ships sitting as close to the coast as possible without running aground and the shoreline, carrying men, supplies, and perhaps most importantly artillery – a few batteries of light field cannon that, according to Colden, had been acquired via donation from a demobilized volunteer artillery regiment established during the final days of the War of the Congaree Secession. Those cannon would be Colden’s trump card in the expected siege of Fort de Jeune Roi. At least that was what he was telling reporters like Franklin Grammar.

Grammar expected Colden had some additional ace up his sleeve in regards to the fort – he was being far too cavalier about the prospect of launching his ragged army against a fortification that, no matter how outdated or undermanned, would still be a formidable obstacle. Perhaps he had made a secret arrangement with its commander, a bribe of money or post-conquest power in exchange for quick surrender or abandonment of the fort. Grammar supposed they would find out soon enough.

Outside the Village of New Orchard
Palmetto Island

Terrence Beauregard, “Bo” to close friends and lovers, let his hand wander down to rest on the ring of his bayonet protruding from the scabbard at his waist and sticking into his side. The feeling was comforting more than annoying – the several inches of cold steel was still there, ready to be affixed to the muzzle of his Greenfield rifled musket when needed. Though it had not been needed so far.

His unit, a collection of men who, like him, had served in the Astorian Army during the Congaree War, had been one of the first to touch the shores of Palmetto. Now they were pushing inland, and Beauregard could see the sleepy village of New Orchard, so named for the fruit orchard that they were using for shade against the boiling sun overhead.

The sound of gunfire in the near distance instantly seized his attention. He could hear footsteps pounding on the soil. He turned to look, and he could see out of the corner of his eyes others doing so as well. His hand went back to the comfort of that bayonet until he could make out the figure of a Legion soldier, a runner coming in from the advance scouts, rushing past the line a ways down and approaching the colonel of the “regiment” standing behind the line with his staff.

“Captain Arnold would like to inform you that he has made contact with the enemy on the other side of the village, sir,” the runner was saying, adrenaline raising his volume enough for Beauregard to hear. The colonel’s reply was quieter, lost in the ambient sound.

“Yes sir, at once sir,” the runner said, and took off again towards the village. Moments later, the unit’s musicians began to play the command to move forward in skirmish order, and the loose line of green-jacketed infantry rose from their positions and began to advance forward into the village of New Orchard, marching to the sound of the guns.

[Atlantian Dominions]

OOC: To make another thing clear, Astoria and I have already mapped out how this ends: Horatio will win and establish a government that will eventually turn into the current regime of my nation. But the details below the overall path to that outcome can be affected by the actions of ourselves and any other nations that participate.

The sound of gunfire in the near distance instantly seized his attention. He could hear footsteps pounding on the soil. He turned to look, and he could see out of the corner of his eyes others doing so as well. His hand went back to the comfort of that bayonet until he could make out the figure of a Legion soldier, a runner coming in from the advance scouts, rushing past the line a ways down and approaching the colonel of the “regiment” standing behind the line with his staff.

“Captain Arnold would like to inform you that he has made contact with the enemy on the other side of the village, sir,” the runner was saying, adrenaline raising his volume enough for Beauregard to hear. The colonel’s reply was quieter, lost in the ambient sound.

“Yes sir, at once sir,” the runner said, and took off again towards the village. Moments later, the unit’s musicians began to play the command to move forward in skirmish order, and the loose line of green-jacketed infantry rose from their positions and began to advance forward into the village of New Orchard, marching to the sound of the guns.

The Northern Road, Outside the Village of New Orchard, Island of Palmetto

The column of infantry moved forward at a quick march, the various pieces of their equipment rattling against the metal of the buttons on their uniform and belt buckles as they moved. Ahead of them down the road the sound of gunfire was beginning to fade away, without additional fighting to replenish it.

Colonel Penbrooke Parkman, commander of the 31st Regiment of the Royal Atlantian Army, gestured with his sword to urge the men onwards. His unit was the only one that had been sent out to fight the Astorian fillibusteros at the beaches, and he had no doubt that it was a suicide mission. If the king, the general, and the other Savoien-descended officers did not mean to have his entire unit wiped out fighting the invaders then they surely meant to claim his career as a casualty.

He had decided that he would give a good account of himself regardless. His unit had made good time to New Orchard – one of the towns that had sprung up after the Yukon conquest of the originally Savoien colony, hence its distinctly non-Savoien name – and his advance guard had skirmished with Astorian scouts that had been moving through the village. According to the report from his officer, they had killed and wounded a few Astorian pirates and taken a few losses in return.

The troops marching past him in double quick were the rear-guard. Parkman and his regimental officers had agreed that the best way to tip the enemy off balance was to attack, and so he had brought up his entire regiment to hit the Astorians all along the line they had created crossing through the village.

Later in that hour, he gave the order and his soldiers, the large majority of them also descended from Yukon settlers instead of Savoien, charged forward with a yell and began to fire by platoons on the Astorian soldiers of fortune in the town and orchard. They aimed to shatter them with volleys and then drive home the rout with the bayonet, just as Parkman had been taught to do during his education at the Royal Officer’s Academy back in Yukon.

[Astoria]

Village of New Orchard
Island of Palmetto

Terrence Beauregard leveled his rifle as the command to “take aim!” rang out from down the line, and when the order to fire leapt from the mouth of the officer he pulled the trigger and a sheet of flame spread from one end of the platoon to the other, white smoke obscuring his vision of the Atlantians blasting away at him up ahead. As he began the almost mechanical process of reloading, the platoon to his left opened fire.

The Atlantian attack had started as a skirmish and then developed into a brawl as, from what Beauregard could figure out, both sides seemed to be pouring all the men they had available into the fight.

The Atlantians had charged the Astorian lines, rushing forward and forming into lines to fire, and Beauregard’s regiment had raced to match them and get onto the line to hold them. For now it was a pure match of raw strength, a contest to see whether the inertia of the Atlantian attack could overcome the resolution of the Astorian defense.

Along the Road from the Beach
Other Side of New Orchard
Island of Palmetto

Additional troops had been offloaded and assembled and now were racing towards the fighting at New Orchard. This unit was made up of former Congaree secessionist rebels, soldiers who had fought like the devil for four years before being overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the Astorian government and army. They were led by Colonel Simon Rake, an infamous rebel leader who had personally led and survived more charges than any other commander in the rebel army.

“C’mon boys, the war will be over by the time we get onto the line!” Rake shouted from the back of the horse he had insisted be offloaded from the transport ahead of schedule to bear him forward with his unit. He wheeled the charger around towards New Orchard, trotting forward ahead of his lead companies towards the sound of combat.

“Colonel Rake!” A voice shouted his name from down the road. A runner in the green uniform of the Legion rushed towards him, stopping short enough to avoid being kicked at by the horse. “Colonel Abelson’s compliments, sir. He is engaged with the Atlantians, he reckons about a regiment. They’re damn tenacious, in his words, and he requests that you move your regiment onto line on his left for a flank assault.”

Rake nodded briskly. “Send Colonel Abelson my compliments and tell him my men are getting onto line as quick as we can. Tell him to hold like he did at Newburgh and I’ll charge them like I did at Market Square.”

The runner laughed. “Gladly sir.” Rake laughed too as the man took off towards the front. Abelson and most of his men were veterans of the opposing side in the civil war, and he and Rake had been on opposite sides of the same battlefield a few times during the fighting.

Now it was time to see how Astorians fought when you united the best of both sides under the same flag.

[Atlantian Dominions]

The Atlantian attack had started as a skirmish and then developed into a brawl as, from what Beauregard could figure out, both sides seemed to be pouring all the men they had available into the fight.

The Atlantians had charged the Astorian lines, rushing forward and forming into lines to fire, and Beauregard’s regiment had raced to match them and get onto the line to hold them. For now it was a pure match of raw strength, a contest to see whether the inertia of the Atlantian attack could overcome the resolution of the Astorian defense.

The Front Line, Outside the Village of New Orchard, Island of Palmetto

From atop his horse Colonel Parkman could see his men, who would have been resplendent in their red and gold uniforms if they weren't worn with age and repairs, surge forward against the Astorian lines. The initial Astorian line had buckled, almost given way, and then held firm as what he suspected was the rest of the regiment he had slammed into was brought forward onto the line. He listened as runners brought news back from the company commanders, and the picture it painted was that he was facing an enemy smaller in numbers than he was. If only the stuck-up idiots had sent him with more than just his own regiment! What might have been a chance for a rout was lost to what ifs. He could at best hold the pirates here until they brought up the rest of their force and crushed him. Damn the wine-sack Savoien!

"Corporal, get to Major Blighton on the left and tell him to push forward. I believe he is on the enemy's flank - we might just have a chance to roll these scoundrels up."

"At once, Colonel."

The runner gave a overly formal salute and hurried off to pass Parkman's orders to his third-in-command overseeing the left wing of the regiment. From what Parkman could hear of the battle and see through field glasses Lieutenant-Colonel Cardiman and the center-right had hit the bulk of the Astorian force in the orchard to the south of the town. If Blighton could get onto their flank and fire into them from the side, they would be decimated. If he could force them into retreat, the snarl of untangling routed men from reinforcements might slow down the advance long enough for his messenger to get it through General deCleur's soft head that he needed more troops.

Fort de Jeune Roi, City of Sant-Arnault, Island of Palmetto

"Merci, thank you for your report, lieutenant. I will confer with my staff now, you are dismissed."

As the Yukon lieutenant saluted, whirled about and left the room, General deCleur turned to his subordinates. The colonels of the three regiments left to form the garrison of Fort de Jeune Roi and Sant-Arnault had assembled shortly after he had dispatched Colonel Parkman to meet the invaders.

That Colonel Parkman, by rank the equal of these men, had been dispatched prior to the assembly was not by accident or unnoticed by the other colonels. With that foreigner Parkman gone, the true gentlemen could discuss the important affairs of state.

"Colonel Parkman requests reinforcements to drive the fillbusteros back into the sea. His report claims that he faces inferior numbers and can achieve great victory if supported."

"I believe that the colonel's military eye is too low to the ground. Dispatching any more significant reinforcements could endanger the defense of this fort and the city."

General deCleur looked to Colonel Couren. The man's point was valid but weak - but it did provide him with the cover he needed to jettison the Yukon. The general's eyes swept the other two colonels and saw no indignation or resistance.

"I concur. Colonel Parkman's orders were to slow the enemy and allow us to test the mettle of this pirate army."

General deCleur left the room to deliver his response to Colonel Parkman's messenger.

"Inform the colonel that no reinforcements can be spared without weakening the defensive preparations here to an inexcusable level. However, the colonel is reminded that his orders do permit him to withdraw when appropriate."

The lieutenant, another one of these Yukon transplants, saluted once more and made for the door and his horse. DeCleur's response put Parkman in a superbly executed quandary: if he withdrew to preserve his regiment deCleur could have him indicted on insufficient valor and refusal to face the enemy, and if he stayed and fought without reinforcements then his command would be destroyed and he could be safely reassigned to some backwater garrison on Atlantis, commanding a dozen vagabonds in a customs post.

And then the war could be won by the the Savoien-descended aristocracy, the only true rulers of this island.

[Astoria]

"Corporal, get to Major Blighton on the left and tell him to push forward. I believe he is on the enemy's flank - we might just have a chance to roll these scoundrels up."

"At once, Colonel."

The runner gave a overly formal salute and hurried off to pass Parkman's orders to his third-in-command overseeing the left wing of the regiment. From what Parkman could hear of the battle and see through field glasses Lieutenant-Colonel Cardiman and the center-right had hit the bulk of the Astorian force in the orchard to the south of the town. If Blighton could get onto their flank and fire into them from the side, they would be decimated. If he could force them into retreat, the snarl of untangling routed men from reinforcements might slow down the advance long enough for his messenger to get it through General deCleur's soft head that he needed more troops.

Among the Orchard
Outside the Village of New Orchard
Island of Palmetto

Private Beauregard ran the final steps to place himself in the second rank of the company as it reformed a few paces back from where it had began the battle. The Atlantian attack was determined and fierce, and it seemed that they might outnumber the Astorian regiment by a considerable margin.

The first rank of men had finished loading their rifles just as Beauregard and the second rank were forming up behind them, and the commander of the company began to shout the order to “take aim!” when a bullet found him, a hole exploding in his coat on his upper left side and blood spattering the fruit tree behind him. Someone shouted, “My God he’s dead!”

“Fire!” The command came from a lieutenant, the captain’s second in command, and the first rank obeyed. Fire and smoke leapt out and the Atlantian line, which had surged forward when the captain had been hit, staggered and halted about where the Astorian line had been moments ago.

“Where is the captain?!” The urgent voice was a new one, someone from outside the company. A runner, Beauregard suspected, from another company or maybe from the colonel.

“Colonel Abelson says you must withdraw your line, lieutenant!” The voice was shouting over the noise of Beauregard and the second rank firing. “The enemy is attacking on our extreme right, and if you do not withdraw to even the line you will be fired on from two sides!”

“Company! To the rear, fall back!” The bugler sounded the call and the company performed the same maneuver it had just finished, this time the first rank remaining to fire another volley into the Atlantians while the second rank took several paces back and reformed. Then the first rank turned and ran for the safety of the new line.

Dead and wounded men lay strewn around the orchard, some bodies crying out for aid while others lay impossibly still. Beauregard had seen far too much of this for one lifetime.

“Take aim! …Fire!”

North of the Town
Outside the Village of New Orchard
Island of Palmetto

Major John Packer waved his sword in the air, circling it before bringing it down facing the terrain ahead of him. “Forward march, double quick!”

On his command the Second Battalion of the Second Regiment of Colden’s Legion, three hundred Congaree veterans and sympathizers who had chosen fighting for a new life in Atlantia over living in the defeated southern states of Astoria, rushed the final yards past the village of New Orchard, the companies on the extreme right flank wheeling slightly so that the unit did not so much advance forward as to the side, swinging around the village onto the right end of the ongoing battle between the Atlantians and the Astorian veterans.

It had been done perfectly, Packer reflected. Rake had led the First Battalion through the village and was now emerging to strengthen the faltering right flank of the First Regiment of the Legion against the Atlantian flank attack. Packer could now lead the Second into an assault. The Atlantian change had turned their left flank into their rear, and the battalion could slam into it and crush a portion of the enemy strength.

[Atlantian Dominions]

On his command the Second Battalion of the Second Regiment of Colden’s Legion, three hundred Congaree veterans and sympathizers who had chosen fighting for a new life in Atlantia over living in the defeated southern states of Astoria, rushed the final yards past the village of New Orchard, the companies on the extreme right flank wheeling slightly so that the unit did not so much advance forward as to the side, swinging around the village onto the right end of the ongoing battle between the Atlantians and the Astorian veterans.

It had been done perfectly, Packer reflected. Rake had led the First Battalion through the village and was now emerging to strengthen the faltering right flank of the First Regiment of the Legion against the Atlantian flank attack. Packer could now lead the Second into an assault. The Atlantian change had turned their left flank into their rear, and the battalion could slam into it and crush a portion of the enemy strength.

The Front Line, Outside the Village of New Orchard, Island of Palmetto

It had been in vain. The Astorians before him were on the verge of breaking, but their reinforcements had been faster in arriving than his own. If they were even coming.

Colonel Parkman sent runners to his commanders to break off the attack on the left flank and fall back to face the new arrivals, who charged with a sort of wailing scream that Parkman supposed was the infamous “rebel yell” of Congaree veterans. This Horatio Colden had assembled the dregs of the Astorian military class for his war, it seemed.

“Order Lieutenant-Colonel Tisk to fall back slowly, keep the enemy in the orchard pressed or we will have two charges to handle.”

The runner who returned moments later from his errand to the right flank brought grave news.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Tisk is dead, sir. Shot while leading the attack. Captain Danny has assumed command of the battalion.”

“Well then tell Captain Danny I’m promoting him to Lieutenant-Colonel when we get out of this mess, and his orders are to save that battalion so he has something to command.”

Parkman wheeled his horse about, pointing back down the road to Sant-Arnault.

“We will reform down the road. And by God’s grace we may get some reinforcement there.”

[Astoria]

Legion Camp
Outside the Village of New Orchard
Island of Palmetto

Colden’s Legion had made camp just beyond New Orchard, setting up a field of tents to house soldiers, hospitals, and other institutions. The sounds of camp life dominated the scene: men and pack animals hauling supplies and artillery, soldiers marching or lounging and conversing, and hospitals emitting the sounds of their bloody work.

“What is the state of Colonel Abelson’s regiment?” Horatio Colden asked as he strode into the tent that had been appointed as his command post. Following him in were his commanders, minus the commander of the First Regiment. Colonel Abelson had been wounded while leading the stand of his right flank battalion, and was somewhere in the hospital complex either being treated or awaiting treatment for a non-life threatening injury. Last into the tent was Colden’s personal aide, who had held the tent flap open for the others.

“Seventy-four men are known to be dead,” replied Colonel Rake, whose Second Regiment had broken the back of the Atlantian charge. “Another one hundred and thirty-three are wounded. Some of those will likely die as well.”

Colden nodded. “And your regiment, colonel?”

“Forty-seven dead, and another eighty-six wounded, Mister President.” Rake addressed Colden using his highest rank, but the man shook a hand negatively.

“This is a military meeting, here I wear the hat of general, so you may address me as such.”

“Yes, general.” Rake inclined his head. “My men are ready for another round. Abelson’s boys could probably use some time off the line to recover and redress their lines. They’re tough, those northrons, but they need to regroup.”

“Luckily, we now have our full force ashore, so we can give Abelson and the First some time in the reserve. Put your regiment onto our left. Colonel Towerhawk, your regiment is to take the center. Colonel Mars, you will take the right.”

Colden took a moment to judge Rake’s reaction to that order. Colonel Phillip Mars was a black Afran-Astorian, the son of enslaved parents who had been freed by the Astorian government’s victory in the War of the Congaree Secession. Now he led a unit of black soldiers, recruited for the chance at an improved life in the Atlantian Isles and the chance to fight for the freedom of the Afran slaves on the islands.

If Rake had reservations about several hundred former slaves and northron blacks on his flank, he did not show them. Colden made a note to speak with the colonel privately, to ensure that all his subordinate commanders and soldiers followed suit.

Colonel Towerhawk’s unit was comprised of hard men from the western frontier, a mixture of white and black frontiersmen, indigenous Novaterrans who had made their reputation fighting the Astorian Cavalry, and a variety of other inhabitants of that rough and tumble land.

“It would seem we battled our own kin today,” Colden said. “The prisoners that your boys took were all Yukons, isn’t that right?”

Rake nodded affirmatively. “Seems they’re a bit peeved that the general back in Sant-Arnault didn’t send them reinforcements.”

“Indeed,” Colden said, his voice clearly indicating a train of thought moving through his mind. “Run up a flag of truce and send a messenger to their camp. I want to speak to the commander of this regiment. We may be able to find a new ally here. Anything else?”

When none of the colonels spoke up, Colden dismissed them. Then he had his aide bring the draft of the document he intended to issue, once he had taken control of Sant-Arnault.

A PROCLAMATION
DECLARING THE ABOLISHMENT OF SLAVERY THROUGHOUT THE ATLANTIAN ISLES

[Atlantian Dominions]

“It would seem we battled our own kin today,” Colden said. “The prisoners that your boys took were all Yukons, isn’t that right?”

Rake nodded affirmatively. “Seems they’re a bit peeved that the general back in Sant-Arnault didn’t send them reinforcements.”

“Indeed,” Colden said, his voice clearly indicating a train of thought moving through his mind. “Run up a flag of truce and send a messenger to their camp. I want to speak to the commander of this regiment. We may be able to find a new ally here. Anything else?”

Regimental Camp, Some Distance from New Orchard, Island of Palmetto

Colonel Parkman had barely suppressed his urge to pick up his map table and hurl it onto the ground, shattering it into pieces. Those bastards in Sant-Arnault had denied him reinforcements, and the message from General deCleur was not guidance from a superior officer but an invitation to choose whether he faced a court martial or reassignment to a rock in the middle of the Atlantian Sea.

The obvious answer was that the Savoien wine-drinkers had found a way to finally rid themselves of his unit, this collection of obnoxious Yukons who had stayed after the War of Reclamation. The Savoien ruling class saw them as foreigners, and reminders of the Yukon colonial domination the island had suffered for a century.

Well, no soft-headed, cheese-eating coward would get the satisfaction of seeing his sword broken by a court-martial punishment. He’d stay and fight it out until his men broke, and then he’d die a soldier’s death or get captured by the Astorians. Or perhaps…a third option whispered itself in the very smallest corner of his mind. The Astorian would-be conquerer, Horatio Colden, had asked to meet him under flag of truce. Parkman had agreed, and was due to ride out to that meeting soon.

As he mounted his horse and rode from the camp, Parkman continued to stew in a mixture of loathing and spite, riding past the rows of tents erected by the men of the regiment who could still move under their own power. His regiment had around 650 men when they had started the engagement, and now he estimated they had around 500 ready to meet the next Astorian attack. They had gotten their chance to hit the enemy while enjoying the upper hand in numbers, but now that was gone. His scouts had reported a great number of tents in the Astorian camp, meaning they had brought up the rest of their force from the beaches.

Astorian Camp, Outside the Village of New Orchard, Island of Palmetto

Colonel Parkman entered the Astorian camp and was lead to the tent where he would meet Horatio Colden. He surrendered his pistol but kept the sword at his belt, as befit a gentleman and officer. Colden was seated in one of two chairs at a small table in the middle of the tent.

“Good evening Colonel…Parkman, correct?” Colden said, clearly showing that he had read reports from interrogations of captured Atlantian Yukons.

“Colonel Penbrooke Parkman, commander of the Thirty-First Regiment of His Majesty’s Infantry.”

“Sit down, Colonel. I want to discuss something with you.”

Parkman sat down, wary of the tone of Colden’s voice.

“What do you wish to discuss?”

“The question of loyalty, colonel. Loyalty, and to whom it is owed…and how it is earned…”

Regimental Camp, Some Distance from New Orchard, Island of Palmetto

When Colonel Parkman returned, he spoke to no one. He gathered his subordinates, his new lieutenant-colonel and the major of the regiment, and the company commanders. They began to meet as the sun was setting. It was well below the horizon by the time they adjourned.

[Astoria]

Legion Camp
Outside the Village of New Orchard
Island of Palmetto

As morning dawned, the Legion camp was bustling with activity in preparation for the next march. Benjamin Abelson’s regiment of Astorian veterans had been assigned to rear guard duty, so they would stay behind and guard the camp and its supplies while the other three regiments of the Legion pushed forward. Abelson’s soldiers grumbled about being denied their shot at additional glory, at avenging their comrades killed by the Yukons, but the other units were better rested and at full strength, so they would take the lead.

Captain Van Kuren, commanding the Legion’s cavalry, had split his force of 100 horsemen, a mixture of Astorian and Congaree veterans and frontier riders, into two troops of 50 and spread them out to cover the flanks of the advance as well as scout ahead. They reported no ambushes lying in wait.

“It’s the damndest thing,” Van Kuren reported to Horatio Colden, riding just to the rear with his personal guard and staff. “That Yukon regiment that Abelson and Rake tangled with ought to have sentries posted, and even if they just took off running we should have been able to notice that.”

“I suspect you will not find any evidence that the Yukons have stuck around,” Colden said cryptically, refusing to elaborate. No one had gotten any word on what it was that the self-proclaimed president and the Yukon colonel had discussed in their parley, but Horatio had left the meeting confident that the Legion would sweep aside any resistance it encountered.

Behind Colden came the draft animals towing the guns of Captain Crighton’s artillery company, 20 guns in all split into two batteries. Colden’s Legion was small and nowhere near as well-armed as a similar-sized unit would have been during the War of Congaree Secession, but spies and scouts had told Colden that the Atlantians were in no position to match him. Their army would be spread out to hold down the slaves, and they had done little in the way of fighting since the Savoien aristocracy had thrown off Yukon colonial rule in the 1740s. His boys would sweep aside whatever paltry forces the Atlantians could muster…especially once he unveiled his trump card.

[Atlantian Dominions]

Fort de Jeune Roi, City of Sant-Arnault, Island of Palmetto

Their reception had not been enthusiastic or at all receptive.

Colonel Parkman had brought the remnants of his force, somewhere around 450 men though the final number would not be known until he could conduct a proper review and account for all the wounded who had died and men who had deserted or been captured. General deCleur had greeted him with formal and cold announcements about being pleased to see him return safely from battle, and then had told him in private that he had indeed begun court-martial proceedings against him for leaving the enemy in possession of the field of battle without cause.

Parkman had seen it coming from across the horizon. If the court-martial convened quickly enough they could strip him of his command and reassign his regiment to fatigue duty that would be essentially permanent, reducing them to paid laborers. Those who resigned could be ejected from the army with dishonor and their social standing ruined. It was a well-calculated political and social coup by the Savoien general.

It also sealed in Parkman’s mind the righteousness of the decision he had made the night before, with his officers. If their Atlantian commanders would not show them decency, Horatio Colden had promised that he would.

Royal Palace, City of Fair Harbor, Palmetto

“General deCleur reports that his initial sortie against the Astorians has been able to successfully check their advance. He has sent His Majesty a report of the battle, along with the request that his decision to court-martial the Yukon colonel be approved along with its sentence.”

The marquis finished reading the dispatch from Sant-Arnault to the King and the assembled court and bowed, then stepped back into his place to one side of the audience hall. King Francois stroked his chin in contemplation.

“Send a message to General deCleur, informing him of Our hearty thanks for his action and decision in the face of the enemy, and that We approve his court-martial of the Yukon coward. He may impose whatever sentence he sees fit upon the man, for in time of war we must not suffer incompetence among our ranks.”

The court murmured, taking note of the message such a decision sent to all the officers in the Royal Army: failure would not be tolerated.

As the King dismissed the court and beckoned his concubine to accompany him to his chambers, the marquis de Bayeuma stepped forward to approach him. Bowing low, he awaited the wordless acceptance of the young monarch before matching the pace of the king, remaining one step behind him in deference.

“Mon roi, I believe that General deCleur’s report of the situation may be less than complete. I have been told that the rumor circulating in the city is that the general sent out only the Yukon regiment, in order to destroy them, and in so doing…”

“Found an excellent way to rid us of a vestige of the regime coloniale, and helped us to get the measure of our foe.”

“Oui, mon roi, and yet I worry that…”

“Enough with your worries. General deCleur comes from an able family of officiers. He will not fail Us in the defense of Sant-Arnault. And if he does, marquis, then we will crush the fillibustero in the counter-attack.”

The marquis de Bayeuma bowed his head. The young king had an able mind for court politics and a fair grasp of military tactics…but he was young, and too often did not heed the guidance of his advisors.

“It will be as you say, mon roi.”

[Astoria]

On the Road to Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

On the right flank of the Legion’s advance, a small party of troops gathered around a curiosity that been discovered during the advance: an Afran slave, apparently escaped from a nearby plantation in the chaos caused by the Legion’s march on Sant-Arnault.

“He don’t speak much English,” one soldier was saying to the others. “But I think I got the basics. Says his name’s Oldemar.”

The escaped slave looked between the faces of the men before him: black faces, shades of the same color as his. They were holding guns, and wearing uniforms of a type he had never seen before. These men were very obviously not slaves.

“That’s right,” one of the soldiers said, understanding the look that the enslaved man was giving them. “We’s free men. Here to free you and all the rest.”

They had a few spare muskets, uniforms, and equipment in the regimental inventory. Corporal Archibald Johns talked to the man some more, and it was clear that Colonel Mars’ regiment had itself a new recruit.

Plantation Isle-de-Monde
Outside Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

The plantation was nothing compared to the truly massive establishments near the capital at Fair Harbor, but it was still impressive, on par with many of the pre-war plantations in southern Astoria. Unlike those plantations however, this one had not yet gotten the message that it was the end of slavery’s time on earth. The soldiers of Colonel Towerhawk’s regiment had felt it was their duty to deliver that message on their march to Sant-Arnault.

The owner had fled, taking a big portion of his possessions and likely his most prized slaves with him into the city. They’d catch up with him soon enough, thought Captain Sparrow. Sparrow was half-Novaterran, and he’d grown up with one foot in Astorian society and one foot looking for purchase in a native heritage he’d never known firsthand beyond his name.

His company was similarly mixed, mostly Astorian frontiersmen and soldiers of fortune. The true Novaterrans had enclaved themselves in their own companies in the regiment. They’d swung wide off the road to this plantation, guided in by paths through the field and by newly freed enslaved workers. They’d opened the Atlantian manor up to the slaves to loot and then they’d set the mansion on fire, letting the heat from the flames add to the heat of a warm spring day.

Sparrow had gotten his own loot before the flames had gone up, some small valuables apparently not worth enough for their previous owner to take with him. The regiment had gained a few new recruits as well, men willing to take up arms in a foreign army for the promise of vengeance against their enslavers.

[Atlantian Dominions]

Fort de Jeune Roi, City of Sant-Arnault, Island of Palmetto

General deCleur looked out at the fortifications that the slaves were building, throwing up dirt and logs to form earthworks on either side of the main road into Sant-Arnault. In those positions he would position most of his garrison to hold the Astorian pirates off for as long as possible. He had read about the bloody carnage of the Astorian Civil War, how fewer men behind stout fortifications could hold off even the most determined attacker.

If the line was broken, he could pull whatever survivors made it out into the fort itself. Fort de Jeune Roi was aged, but still capable of resisting anything but the most prolonged and established siege. DeCleur doubted that the fillibustero had gotten his hands on any siege guns worth the name. From the fort he could control access to the city itself, where the local militia would be fortified, and the harbor where Captain Fallard’s three warships remained.

The reply from the King had been welcome, and the court-martial was scheduled to convene tomorrow to begin its proceedings. Their outcome was a forgone conclusion. The best that Parkman could hope for now was reassignment to an isolated coastal fort, but deCleur would push for a dishonorable discharge from the King’s army. Then they could dismantle that entire regiment of Yukons.

His scouts, and the stories being told by fearful landowners flooding into the city from the eastern, told him that the enemy was close. They would probably arrive in front of his earthworks the next day. It would be very frustrating to have to split his attention between destroying Colonel Parkman’s career and fighting off the Astorian pirates.

[Astoria]

Outside the City of Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

Colden’s Legion began its assault on the Atlantian line the following morning. Colden had spent the previous day bringing up his entire force, including the rested and regrouped regiment under Abelson, and getting them into position. The main camp had been set up outside the range of the artillery in the fort, with the Legion’s artillery ready to move the final distance to within range of the earthworks that were the initial target.

The assault was a simple one: the Atlantians had placed their forces astride the main road into the city, and a flank march would be perilous to the supply lines back to the beachhead and take time. Colden had vetoed the idea as commander-in-chief of the Legion, and instead drawn up a frontal assault.

“It will be bloody work,” Colonel Abelson said warily. “I’ve ridden to see the earthworks myself. They’re impressive.” The other colonels nodded in agreement. Colden decided that it was time to bring his regimental commanders into the circle.

“Gentlemen, the purpose of this attack does not need to succeed in carrying the works for its objective to be achieved,” Colden declared to the dumbfounded colonels. “I have cultivated allies within the Atlantian garrison, and they have promised me that they can carry the fort by deception and surprise this evening. What we need to do is provide those Atlantians not aligned with us a reason to relax, and gather in celebration.”

Colden looked to his commanders. He was essentially admitting that he would be throwing their men into battle, sending men to death and horrible injury, to establish a cover rather than to achieve a military goal. But these were hardened men, and he saw in their faces that they understood.

“Colonel Abelson, Colonel Towerhawk, your regiments will be at the forefront of the assault. Commit to the attack, but if it becomes clear that it will not succeed you may call it off at your discretion. Colonel Rake, your regiment will be in reserve. Have your men rest: I will have need of them this evening, to follow up on our allies’ action. And Colonel Mars,” Colden turned the slender black man standing among the white Astorians. “You will march your men towards the southern flank of the line. When the fort falls, your men will be the first into Sant-Arnault.”

At the Atlantian Earthworks
Outside the City of Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

Captain Crighton had his artillery company in position in the early morning, opening fire on the Atlantian lines with explosive shot that shattered wood and blew great craters into the piled up earth. The guns of the fort returned fire, but they had little long-range artillery capable of suppressing the Astorian guns. Mortars began to lob heavy explosive rounds towards the Astorians, but they were more sound than fury and few members of the Legion were killed.

Under cover of the artillery, the attack began. Colonels Abelson and Towerhawk had committed approximately two-thirds of each of their regiments to the attack, a total of about 750 men charging out of the cover of the trees towards the Atlantian earthworks.

[Atlantian Dominions]

Captain Crighton had his artillery company in position in the early morning, opening fire on the Atlantian lines with explosive shot that shattered wood and blew great craters into the piled up earth. The guns of the fort returned fire, but they had little long-range artillery capable of suppressing the Astorian guns. Mortars began to lob heavy explosive rounds towards the Astorians, but they were more sound than fury and few members of the Legion were killed.

Under cover of the artillery, the attack began. Colonels Abelson and Towerhawk had committed approximately two-thirds of each of their regiments to the attack, a total of about 750 men charging out of the cover of the trees towards the Atlantian earthworks.

Atlantian Earthworks, Outside the City of Sant-Arnault, Island of Palmetto

Within the earthworks, built over the previous days by slaves impressed from private ownership, around 850 soldiers from two regiments sheltered against the rain of artillery fire. The long-range artillery from the fort returned fire against the Atlantians, but the fort’s artillery was mostly arrayed in the direction of the coast, to prevent enemy ships from entering the harbor. Those few mortars the fort had retained after decades of peacetime service and those guns that were aimed landward or could be moved to face to that direction opened fire, hurling explosive shells and even some solid shot in the direction of the Astorian guns.

As the Astorians charged, the men in the earthworks loaded their weapons and awaited orders. Many of them were carrying flintlock muskets, smoothbore weapons that were ineffective until very close range. The rifles among the regiments were handed to sharpshooters, who risked getting up from the safer position below the lip of the earth and log wall to begin firing at the Astorians as they advanced.

Individual green-coated soldiers began to fall from these individual shots, but the general mass remained unaffected. As they closed in, the ranks came to a halt, leveled their weapons, and opened fire. Hundreds of bullets smashed into wood, dirt, and human bodies. Wooden splinters were thrown into the trench by the impact, blinding Atlantian soldiers and slicing their skin.

At command from their officers, the soldiers in the trench raised themselves up and leveled their own weapons towards the foreign invaders. As officers down the line bellowed “Feu!” and hundreds of percussion and flintlock musket locks clicked into ignition, fire erupted from the line.

The green line ahead of them seemed to wobble as it absorbed the wave of lead thrown into it, but it did not break. The Astorians fixed bayonets and continued to march forward while the Atlantians began to reload.

The next volley from the Astorians came close enough that the Atlantians could hear the officers shouting “Fire!” and this time the soldiers could not shelter fully below the walls because of the need to reload. Bullets cut down men all along the line. The Atlantians returned the favor with another volley of their own, and then the Astorians broke into a run and charged the lines.

Savage hand-to-hand fighting broke out as individual Astorian companies reached the earthwork and leapt over the top, swinging their muskets like clubs or stabbing out with the bayonet. Men wielded knives, tomahawks, or even cutlass swords in the tight confines of the earthwork.

[Astoria]

Savage hand-to-hand fighting broke out as individual Astorian companies reached the earthwork and leapt over the top, swinging their muskets like clubs or stabbing out with the bayonet. Men wielded knives, tomahawks, or even cutlass swords in the tight confines of the earthwork.

At the Atlantian Earthworks
Outside the City of Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

In the end it was a matter of numbers. The Atlantians had more men to feed into the grinding battle among the earthworks than Colonels Abelson or Towerhawk were prepared to commit. So the buglers called out the order to retreat, and the artillery opened up with a small barrage to cover that retreat. Men were left lying behind and on the earthwork, too badly wounded to carry to safety or left for dead, crying out for their comrades to bring them back as they retreated.

Abelson and Towerhawk watched as their regiments streamed back into the cover of the trees as the artillery opened up on the earthwork once more, catching a few Atlantians celebrating their victory out in the open. Abelson looked to Towerhawk, his mind already calculating just how much of his regiment would be left after today.

“I hope this was worth it,” he said to the silent frontiersman.

Legion Camp
Outside the City of Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

The final body count was not as terrible as expected: Abelson’s regiment had lost another 63 killed and 94 wounded. The regiment was now more fit for guard duty than combat, with only around 200 men left effective. Towerhawk had suffered more heavily, 87 dead and another 104 wounded, but his unit had been larger from the start and had seen no fighting earlier, so he would be more than capable of fighting in the next round, whenever that would be.

“Now we wait,” Horatio Colden declared in the staff meeting he had convened after the assault. “The Savoien love a chance to soak themselves in wine, and as far as they know they’ve just stopped us cold.” Colden turned to Colonel Rake. “Colonel, are your boys ready?”

“They’re chafing at the bit,” Rake replied. “They’re not too happy about sitting out this morning’s action.”

“They’ll have their action,” Colden declared. “Make them ready near sunset. They’ll know the signal.”

[Atlantian Dominions]

Fort de Jeune Roi, City of Sant-Arnault, Island of Palmetto

“Mon officiers, to la victoire!”

General deCleur raised his glass high, and his other commanders followed suit. Five colonels sat at the table, one for each of his regiments. The three who had commanded the men in the earthwork sat to deCleur’s right, the place of honor. The two whose regiments had remained in the fort sat on his left, along with Captain Fallard from the warships in the harbor. Slave women moved around the outer sphere of the table, refilling wine glasses and taking plates away when they were cleared. Enslaved men from the kitchens arrived with fresh food for the feast.

“We have won two battles here, gentlemen: we have beaten the fillibusteros and we have struck down the upstart Yukon.”

That got a laugh from the colonels, though Captain Fallard did not seem to find it funny. All of them knew that Parkman’s absence from this dinner was an intentional snub, though whether the Yukon realized the layers of social insult that he had been dealt with unlikely. The Yukons never could keep pace with the social maneuverings of Savoien nobility such as these men.

In fact, as they celebrated, Colonel Parkman and his regiment were having a party of their own. With General deCleur having already consigned them to the rubbish pile, Parkman had been able to move most of his men out of the fortress itself, into the city defenses. He had broached the idea to deCleur, who had taken the chance to further exile Parkman’s Yukons from the front lines and any potential glory. Which meant that as Parkman and a few picked men went about their mission within the fort, his regiment was waiting for the signal in Sant-Arnault itself.

Parkman, two lieutenants he knew could be trusted, and Lieutenant-Colonel Danny, snuck through the fortress to the main magazine. The two guards were easily overpowered, and the lieutenants began preparing fuses and arranging the stores of gunpowder. Once they were done, a slow match was lit.

The men had timed it perfectly: the slow match gave them enough time to prepare similar explosions in both of the secondary magazines. They mounted horses and galloped out of the fort with what the lieutenant who had set the fuses estimated was a minute to spare.

General deCleur had just enough time to see Parkman riding hard for Sant-Arnault and wonder what the devil he was doing before a massive explosion ripped Fort de Jeune Roi apart and lit up the late evening sky as if it was high noon.

[Astoria]

General deCleur had just enough time to see Parkman riding hard for Sant-Arnault and wonder what the devil he was doing before a massive explosion ripped Fort de Jeune Roi apart and lit up the late evening sky as if it was high noon.

The Atlantian Earthworks
Outside the City of Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

“That’s the signal, boys!” Colonel Rake shouted in triumph as Fort de Jeune Roi erupted in flame and smoke. “Prepare to advance!”

That order would be more difficult carried out than given, because at the moment the pieces of the fort were raining down on the earthworks, the city, and the land surrounding the fort. Chunks of masonry cut down Atlantian and Astorian soldiers, set fire to trees and grass, and tore gaping holes in buildings in the city and the fortification. But as the torrent of falling debris receded, the men of the Second Regiment of Colden’s Legion charged forward.

The Atlantian soldiers in the earthworks had not, could not have possibly, prepared for any of this. As men tumbled out of bedrolls and scrambled for rifles and equipment, the well-rested and ready men of the regiment poured over the earthworks with minimal casualties. Atlantian soldiers were bayoneted through their blankets or shot while struggling to stand up after having been knocked flat by the blast. A hasty rear guard action by those survivors that had managed to get up and organized tried to turn a rout into a fighting retreat, but they were small rocks in the middle of a raging stream.

And they were running out of places to retreat to, for at that moment the men of the Fourth Regiment, Colonel Mars’ black soldiers, were marching on Sant-Arnault.

City of Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

“Colonel Parkman, I presume?”

Colonel Phillip Mars sat on his faithful warhorse, off to one side of the road, as his men advanced in column four abreast into the city of Sant-Arnault. Standing on either side of the road were men in Atlantian uniforms – Yukon men, of the 31st Regiment. And on his own horse, approaching Colonel Mars, was Colonel Penbrooke Parkman.

“Indeed,” Parkman replied. “And you must be Colonel Mars. Mister Colden informed me that you would be the ones that would enter the city. Welcome to Sant-Arnault.” Parkman tipped his hat to the black officer, wheeling his horse around to ride alongside Mars into the city. Scattered gunshots and shouting indicated that not all of the city’s militia defenders had been disarmed or convinced to depart, but between Mars’ troops and Parkman’s defectors they were outgunned and outmatched, and soon defeated. As night continued on and turned into morning, the Astorians had taken the city in their grasp, and began to squeeze it into submission.

As the sun rose over Palmetto, Horatio Colden sent his formal request to the city fathers for the surrender of Sant-Arnault to the forces of the Atlantian Republic.

[Atlantian Dominions]

As the sun rose over Palmetto, Horatio Colden sent his formal request to the city fathers for the surrender of Sant-Arnault to the forces of the Atlantian Republic.

In the Harbor, City of Sant-Arnault, Island of Palmetto

Captain Fallard had died with Fort de Jeune Roi, but his second in command Captain de Colle of the frigate Pied-Leger understood what the massive explosion meant. The Astorians would soon control the city, and if he did not act quickly they would add three more warships to their armada.

Make that two more warships: as Captain de Colle watched in horror, flaming debris rained down from the heights above the harbor onto the frigate Rapier, punching holes through the wooden planks of the deck and igniting the ship’s own powder magazine. A second small sun burst into life below the brilliant one burning on the heights above Sant-Arnault. Captain de Colle made the sign of the cross, praying to God that the men on that ship were granted a swift death instead of the agony of burning alive or drowning.

“Send up the signal for the Courtier to make all possible speed for the open ocean. We need to be escape from this death trap before the Astorians send out boarding parties or mount guns on the heights.”

As Fort de Jeune Roi burned and Sant-Arnault fell, two Atlantian frigates made their way out of the harbor and towards the high seas, where they hopefully could find a fight on more fair terms than the ones the Astorians had set tonight.

Town Hall, City of Sant-Arnault, Island of Palmetto

The next morning, the city fathers arrived in ceremonial procession to deliver the surrender of Sant-Arnault. Five elders, men of wealth and status in the city, rode to the city government’s meeting hall in their carriages, enslaved men guiding the horses along the roads. What they were thinking as they drove their owners in gilded carriages past rows of assembled troops, many of them with skin the same color as theirs, was a subject that the men in those carriages dared not think about.

Horatio Colden stood waiting for them at the top of the stairs, flanked by his colonels and other staff officers. The city fathers made their slow way up the grand stairs, and formally handed Colden the key to the city’s gates.

Sant-Arnault had officially fallen to the Atlantian Republic.

[Astoria]

Town Hall
City of Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

Horatio Colden accepted the surrender of the city with formal grace, going through the motions of the conqueror as the Atlantians expected them. He took possession of the key to the city with the troops from Colonel Mars’ regiment in attendance – a clear signal to the Savoien that their social order was about to be dramatically altered, even more than it had already by the sheer presence of armed black men in their city. While the surrender ceremony took place, Colonel Abelson’s regiment finished sending the last stragglers of the Atlantian force down the road towards the next major city, Holgun. Colonel Towerhawk’s men were taking possession of the still-burning ruins of Fort de Jeune Roi. The fortress would serve little military purpose but the guns that could be salvaged from the rubble would further bolster Captain Blighton’s artillery company.

Later in the day, however, Colden unveiled his surprise. Sending soldiers out to the town homes of all the major Atlantian men of status, he summoned them to the town hall to hear a special proclamation. The Atlantians were herded by soldiers, mostly white this time, with gleaming bayonets affixed to their rifles into the city square to hear their conqueror’s pronouncements. The preamble was mostly an articulation of rules that the Atlantians had been expecting: curfews, martial law, the futility of resistance, harsh punishments for those who resisted or fomented rebellion, etc.

However, then Colden unraveled a large scroll, of the kind used by Savoien and Atlantian kings to make major announcements of shifts of policy. Some of the Atlantians doubtless had figured out what was coming, but quite a few were openly shocked when Colden declared, “All those men held in slavery or otherwise in bondage, except for crimes of which they have been convicted by a fair jury of their peers, are to be immediately and forever free.”

Horatio Colden made his intent clear with the clarifications: chattel slavery based on race was ended in all areas controlled by his troops, what he formally labeled “the sovereign lands of the Atlantian Republic.” Furthermore, enslaved men across the Kingdom were encouraged to flee their plantations and masters for the freedom of the Republic, where they would be welcomed as citizens.

Colonel Mars’ regiment saw a swell of new recruits in the aftermath of the announcement: the man reported to Colden that it may be likely that his unit would be built up to its theoretical full strength of a thousand men after the conquest of one or two more Atlantian cities.

Horatio Colden smiled. “We shall endeavor to reach that milestone soon.”

Legion Camp
Outside the City of Sant-Arnault
Island of Palmetto

The Legion had constructed a new fortified encampment on the road leading out of Sant-Arnault towards the next major city, Holgun. It was in this camp, separate but clearly visible to the citizens of the city, that Horatio Colden’s men prepared for the next phase of their campaign. Colden’s colonels and the captains of his artillery and cavalry gathered around the table, a large map of the island of Palmetto “liberated” from the archives of the city spread out on the table in the center of the headquarters.

“We march next for Holgun,” Colden announced, indicating the city on the map with two pointing fingers. “The enemy is disorganized, weakened, and reeling from what happened here. And if Captain Van Kuren does his job as well as I believe he will,” Colden nodded to his cavalry commander, “They will have more than our advance to contend with.”

Van Kuren nodded back, his mind already working on the details of his mission. He would be sending his men out in small groups, carrying light rations but double their normal ammunition and an extra carbine slung over the back of each trooper, and begin to attempt to foment rebellion among the slaves along the army’s path. That would hopefully slow down any Atlantian effort to mass troops against the Legion.

“Colonel Abelson, your regiment is very understrength,” Colden said, stating an obvious fact. “I shall leave you here, to garrison Sant-Arnault and oversee the training of a new militia. If possible, you will equip additional troops to be sent to the front from among the freed slaves and the white population: Colonel Parkman tells me that there may be a population of Yukons in the city that could be amenable to serving our cause.”

Abelson nodded, though his face showed clear frustration at being left in the rear as the army moved on. Colden suspected the man blamed himself in equal measure, despite his sterling service in the skirmish near New Orchard. His unit was simply the weakest link, and his veterans would make able instructors for the new soldiers Colden intended to raise.

“We shall depart in two days, gentlemen,” Colden declared. “Until then, let your men relax somewhat. They have won a great victory, and should be allowed to enjoy it.”